


I Sing the Body Miraculous

by abigail89



Category: NCIS, Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Hostage Situation, M/M, Medical Trauma, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abigail89/pseuds/abigail89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one of Gibbs's team goes down, only one man can save him, and he's a Navy doc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee--The Body's Lifeblood

I.

 

“Outta the way! Outta the way!” the doctor yells, running alongside the gurney. The patient is crashing, and crashing hard.

“Who's in charge?” another voice demands. “Are you in charge?” When then reach Trauma Room 1, the team sets the gurney and lowers the rails; hands and equipment fly over the bleeding body.

“Get him intubated!” the doctor orders as he reads the information being churned out by the monitors.

“YOU! You're in charge?”

The doctor whirls around. “Yeah, I'm the surgeon on call. You need to get out of here. Sonja! Come get this guy and show--”

“No, goddammit! That's my man there. I'm not leaving him!!”

“Look, moron, you're in the way. I can't do my job if you're impeding the work of my team. So get OUT NOW!”

“You don't get it,” the man shouts back, the desperation apparent. “We don't leave each other behind!”

The monitors start flashing and sounding an loud claxon. “Jerry, can you please--” The doctor turns away and shouts orders. “Charge to three hundred! Clear!”

The paddles make a whining sound, and then the patient's body twitches. Another claxon. “Charge to three-fifty!”

Special Agent Jethro Gibbs stands by helplessly as he watches the dark-haired doctor and his team, a damn fine team at that—Gibbs knows good work when he sees it--work quickly and efficiently over Tim McGee. Blood drips over the side of the gurney even as Gibbs witnesses a nurse forcefully pumping blood from a bag through a tube in Tim's arm.

“Dammit!” the doctor says. “We gotta get him to the OR right now.”

A large African-American man in green scrubs fills Gibbs's view. “Sir, we really need you to step out of this room, so the doc can work on your man.”

“You don't understand,” Gibbs starts. “I can't--”

“Sir, I'm a Marine, too. We never leave our men behind, but right now, I'm asking you, Marine to Marine, to stand aside.”

With that plea, Gibbs backs out of the room as the team of medical personnel prepare to move the gurney holding McGee's battered and bleeding body; he watches as they pile several monitors onto the bed. “He any good?” he asks, nodding at the doc.

“Sir, Doctor Leonard McCoy is the finest trauma surgeon I've ever seen and worked for, and I've seen and worked for a lot.” He places a huge hand on Gibbs's shoulder. “Your man is well cared for.”

The gurney shoots past, surrounded by men and women talking rapidly to each other. They're followed by the blood-covered physician.

“HEY DOC! McCoy!” Gibbs calls. McCoy turns. “Do your best.”

McCoy waves at him in response and then disappears into the elevator.

Gibbs hates to leave Tim to this man, but he has to trust. Trust that the Marine Corps and the Naval Hospital will care for one of his own, just as it has always cared for him.

*~*

“What the hell are you still doing here?” McCoy asks quietly as he enters ICU. “I thought you were leaving.”

“Nope.” Gibbs is seated just outside McGee's room, coffee cup in hand. “Not leaving til I see he's gonna be all right.”

“Well, it's gonna be a while yet,” McCoy says, writing on the chart. “This patient sustained major trauma, and--”

“McGee,” Gibbs says. “His name is Tim McGee. He's a special agent with NCIS. He's...he's one of mine.”

McCoy looks up at him, then down at the chart. “Agent McGee was shot four times, Special Agent Gibbs. I have put him in a medical coma to stabilize the repair work we did tonight. We will watch him like a hawk on a mouse every second that he's here. There's nothing more for you to do.” He turns to walk into McGee's room with two of the ICU nurses. “Go home, Gibbs.”

Gibbs watches as McCoy and the nurses check Tim. They stay in the room for quite some time before coming out.

McCoy comes to stand beside Gibbs where he's been watching through the room's window. “Gibbs, I thought I said--”

“Not leaving. Get used to it.” And with that, Gibbs goes to sit in the chair beside the door again.

“Whatever,” McCoy mutters.

*~*

At 0600, Gibbs awakens, just like he does every morning; only today, he'ss upright and his ass is numb from sitting in the most uncomfortable chair known to humanity. He stands and turns to look in McGee's room, and is surprised to see McCoy sitting beside the bed; the man looks like he's asleep.

Glancing over at the ICU desk, he sees that the nurse is busy reading another monitor. As she turns away from him, Gibbs slips quietly into Tim's room.

The soft beeps of the cardiac monitor and whoosing of the venitlator greet him. Tim is pale, purple bruises ring his closed eyes; his chest moves up and down with the vent; tubes feed saline and medicines and blood into his body, and other tubes pull waste fluids out of his body.

“Oh God, Tim,” Gibbs says softly. “I should've been there.”

A hand closes around his bicep. “Come with me,” McCoy whispers in his ear.

Gibbs doesn't want to fight the man at the side of the bed, so he goes with him easily. Once outside Tim's room, McCoy, who looks like he'd gone a few rounds himself, stares at him.

“You cannot be here, Gibbs,” McCoy said in a harsh whisper. “You Marines always think sheer force of will can wake anyone up, can make everything all better. Well, it's not going to happen. McGee will awaken when I say he's ready, and he's not.”

“How's he doing, doc?”

McCoy's eyes soften. “He made it through the night, and that's something of a miracle. It's going to be _days_ before we know just how--”

A loud clatter of footsteps and hushed frantic voices cut off whatever McCoy is going to say next. A gaggle of people burst around the corner and immediately surround them.

“Oh, Gibbs!” Abby wails, as she throws her arms around him. “Oh, _Tim_!!!”

“Dr. McCoy, I presume,” a dapper Scotsman says, coming up to McCoy, his hand outstretched. “Dr. Donald Mallard, chief medical examiner for NCIS. Your reputation precedes you, sir. I have heard many accolades for your surgical skills here. How is Timothy doing this morning?”

“Hey, are you the doc?” Tony DiNozzo saya. “What's going on? Any change?”

Gibbs notices that McCoy's face is beginning to turn red, so he acts. A piercing whistle rips through the air. “Hey!” McCoy says, as he turns to face Gibbs, his face filling with anger. “Stop that! This is a hospital, not a hockey rink.”

“Just trying to bring some order to the chaos,” Gibbs says serenely. “If everyone will sit down, Doc McCoy here will bring us up to speed on Tim's prognosis.”

Everyone falls silent immediately. McCoy shoots him a look of—well, not gratitude _exactly_ , but something more like relief. “Ok, here's what we know...”

*~*

At 1034, Gibbs is sitting in the hospital cafeteria staring into a cup that holds a hot liquid that is a disgrace to be called _coffee_ ; it is, however, better than _tea_. Or Coke. Or whatever the hell else passes for a caffeine delivery system. Still, a Marine takes what he could get, and is grateful for it.

“Coffee's the worst I've ever had,” McCoy says with a grumble. Gibbs notices his hair is damp and he's wearing cleaner scrubs and a white medical jacket. “If it was decent, I'd bitch about you drinking too much. But since it's just a step above 'muddy water', I'll spare you the lecture.”

“Appreciate that, doc,” Gibbs replies. He nods, and the doctor dropps into the chair opposite.

For a doctor, McCoy is a big guy, tall, broad-shouldered and flat-bellied. He obviously works out, or at least kept the weight off by running around the hospital. The scuttlebutt is that McCoy is a commissioned naval officer who obtained his training as a civilian; divorced, and not known to hit on nurses, doctors or Naval personnel of either sex; a completely brilliant trauma physician, but something of a grump when dealing with anyone—he's an equal-opportunity bastard to the Chief of Staff down to the old ladies who sit at the information desk. His surgical skills are the stuff of medical legend, which is why the Navy and the hospital put up with him and keep promoting him. The man flat saves lives.

They sit drinking coffee that barely earns the name, content to look past each other, and not speak. Gibbs likes that. He smiles.

“What are you getting all smiley about?” McCoy rumbles.

“Ah, nothing much. Missing a good cup of coffee.”

“You like the buzz?”

“Nope. Just like coffee.”

McCoy humphs quietly. “Some days I think I displace most of my bodily fluids with the stuff. Been drinking it so long don't know how to quit.” McCoy grimaces as he takes another long draw. “Why don't you get out of here? Find yourself that decent cup.”

“Nah. I can put up with it until Tim wakes up.”

McCoy stares at him. “Don't you have a job to do?”

“Yep. Doing it.”

McCoy's beeper goes off, just as the voice over the intercom in the cafeteria sounds: “Code Blue! Code Blue!”

“Shit!” McCoy exclaims, jumping up. The coffee mug hits the floor, and shatters.

Gibbs is right behind him as McCoy enters the stair well, practically jumping down whole flights of stairs. They enter the ICU floor and meet the code team outside McGee's room. The NCIS team are huddled together not far away.

“What is it?” Gibbs shouts.

McCoy's hand hits him mid-chest. “Stay here!!” he roars.

“MCGEE!” Gibbs tries to enter.

“Good god, man, let me save him!” McCoy says. “STAY!”

The doctor enters the room, and starts directing the team. Gibbs slumps against the glass, watching nurses and doctors hand McCoy one instrument after another, stabbing McGee every where.

“Come here, Jethro,” Ducky says, coming to his side. “Let the doctor do his work.”

Exhaustion overcomes him as he allows Ducky to pull him from his vigil.

*~*

Two days later, Gibbs shows up in the ICU at 0500. Predictably, he finds McCoy busily reading the monitors in McGee's room. He stands quietly outside until McCoy notices him. The doctor nods, and Gibbs pushes the door open slowly. The first thing he notices is the quiet whoosing sound is gone; the second, the tubes leading into Tim's mouth are no longer there.

“Here.”

Gibbs handed the doctor a large to-go cup of fragrant dark-roasted Sumatra coffee, black. “Praise be to God,” McCoy breathes. “You sure know where to find good stuff.”

“Told ya. How is he?”

“Today is the day we bring him up out of the coma. I weaned him off the last of the drugs four hours ago. One hour ago, I removed the vent, and he's breathing steadily on his own.” McCoy takes a long sip and sets the cup on the table. “Jesus, that's good. He's been stable for thirty-six hours. Pressure is steady; pulse-ox good. No bleeding from any of the surgical sites, and his urine output is clear. Was worried about his right kidney where the bullet nicked it. All in all, your man here was one lucky son of a bitch.”

“To get you as his doctor,” Gibbs says automatically.

McCoy barely smiles. “No, I mean he was lucky the damage to his kidney, small intestine and liver was minimal. And that the bullets all missed his spine. Wasn't he wearing a vest?”

“Yeah. Armor-piercing bullets.”

“Fuck,” McCoy mutters. “Fucking bastards who make those goddamn things outta be shot with them themselves.”

“Yep.”

“You catch the shooters yet?”

“Can't discuss the case,” Gibbs says.

McCoy raises an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah, we caught two of them. Still looking for the leader.”

“Good. Give them all a good goddamn smack upside the head for me.”

The cardiac monitor beeps steadily. Gibbs looks up. “You been home yet?”

McCoy makes another notation on the chart. “Home? To what? A one-room, bare apartment on a Naval base? I sleep better in the on-call room anyway.”

Gibbs nods.

McCoy picks up his coffee, and together they watch Tim breathing on his own.

*~*

At 1352, just hours before Christmas Day, Tim McGee opens his eyes for the first time in four days.

At 1353:22 Tim McGee sees Jethro Gibbs giving a dark-haired man wearing green medical scrubs and a white coat a bear hug of epic proportions, and quite possibly, a kiss.

The fragrant smell of coffee makes his mouth water.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

*~*

“Good afternoon, Timothy,” a voice calls out from somewhere out...there. “It's time to wake up now. I know you will find this hard to believe, but you'll recover much faster if you move within the first twenty-four hours of surgery.”

Special Agent Tim McGee thinks hard about that. He opens his mouth to reply, but finds it hard to shove the words past the dome of phlegm surrounding his vocal chords. So his response comes out in a hoarse squeak: “It's already been a week, Ducky.”

The genial Scottish doctor comes to stand over him, giving Tim his trademark toothy smile, the smile Tim's seen melt men and women alike. “You _are_ awake! And so nice to see your brown eyes again, lad!” Ducky pats him gently on the shoulder. “I have been reading your chart, and I must say, I am most impressed with this Leonard McCoy's work. His surgical technique is the best I've ever seen, and his medical decisions have been quite sound. No wonder you're looking as well as you do.”

Tim snorts quietly. “Then why do I feel like my body weighs about ten tons? I'm so tired, Ducky.”

“Oh, dear boy, you've had major surgery, with people putting their hands in your gut and rearranging your innards, and let's not even begin to speak of the trauma of being shot. It's going to take some time before you'll feel as right as rain again. But it is imperative that you start to get out of bed and walk around. Move your limbs.” Donald Mallard flaps his arms around his head. “You need to get up and go, Timothy!”

“Umm, not to be rude or anything, but I think I'd like to talk to Dr. McCoy before you drag me out of bed for a marathon.” Tim tries to keep the petulance out of his voice, but frankly, he's a little intimidated by Ducky's energy. And his grand plans.

Dr. Mallard gives him a frown. “Well, I do have a medical degree and am fully qualified to treat patients.”

“I know,” Tim says hastily. “It's just that most of your patients don't exactly get up off the tables, so it's, well, um...” He pauses in the face of Ducky's glare. “Dr. McCoy likes to be in control. I don't want you to get into trouble with him, because he can yell pretty loudly.”

Dr. Mallard walks to the foot of Tim's bed and hangs the chart on the rail. “Well, we wouldn't want _that_ , now would we?”

Tim winces, having forgotten Donald Mallard can yell, too.

*~*

Dr. Leonard McCoy fills his dingy white mug with the dregs of the coffee pot in the nurses' station in the ICU. He adds a more than generous amount of sugar, knowing the last of the pot will be bitter as hell. “Think they'd know better'n stock white sugar,” he grouses.

“And if you leave that empty pot on a hot burner, I am going to kill you dead,” Christine Chapel, the nursing supervisor says. Chapel is forty if she's a day, a full Captain who still pulls a floor shift a few days a week, just to make sure she's keeping her edge, and to scare the crap out of everyone.

To make a point, McCoy picks up the carafe and places it in the sink. “Happy?”

“Overjoyed.”

“Next time they let me outta this bunker, I'm gonna get you some decent coffee, Chapel. And I'm gonna teach y'all how to make a damn pot of coffee that isn't weaker than a newborn kitten or so strong that it'll strip the chrome off a bumper hitch.”

“Oh, really?” Chapel faces him with hands on hips. “And you have this magical formula, do you, Dr. McCoy?”

“I do. It ain't rocket science. All it takes - -”

“Is a measuring device,” another voice cuts in. “One scoop for every two cups of water.”

McCoy and Chapel turn to find Jethro Gibbs leaning against the counter. “And you NCIS boys make better coffee than us nurses?” she says.

“Nah, we just buy it.” He hands McCoy a tall paper cup. “Don't have time to make it. Doc, can I talk to you?” He nods his head towards McGee's room.

“Yeah. Just let me grab Agent McGee's latest readings, Gibbs,” McCoy answers, as he opens his netbook and presses the command to download data on his patients for rounds. “Nurse Chapel, always a pleasure.”

“That's Captain Chapel to you, Major.” As McCoy and Gibbs turn to throw her salutes, she rolls her eyes, but can't help the smile that escapes as she watched the two most taciturn and grumpy men she's ever met walk companionably down the hall together. She doesn't miss much.

But then she mutters, “Son of a bitch,” as she picks up McCoy's forgotten full mug. She won't forget that, either.

 

*~*

The cafeteria is oddly quiet for it being 1350 hours. Cafeterias are the new waiting rooms. They're brighter, have coffee or tea or muffins, comfort food, readily available; chairs can be pulled around tables to accommodate larger groups. McCoy's seen the hospital chaplain meet with families here rather than in the chapel or her office. Doctors still, _thank God_ , meet with family members and guardians and commanding officers in offices or rooms due to privacy concerns. He supposes it's all about familiarity—the background bustle of a kitchen, preparing food and drink because grief requires food for fortitude and caffeine for the vigil and stronger stuff for the delivery of news, good and bad. He remembers all too well neighbors and family gathering in the big kitchen of his grandparents' house back in Georgia when he told them about his father's diagnosis, how much he appreciated the glass of bourbon pressed into his hands; the quiet weeping that underlay the running of water to make coffee and soup; the clean, soft dishtowel slung over his shoulder to wipe away the tears....

Gibbs is relaxed at the table, one foot up on an empty chair. His lean, spare frame fits well into the plastic chair. Most Naval personnel families, people who aren't military, often find the 70s-era chairs constricting. But Gibbs obviously has maintained his Marine fitness discipline. His hair is a modified high and tight preferred by officers, but Gibbs wasn't officer material. He rose up through the ranks to earn his Gunnery Sergeant stripes, to earn the respect of his subordinates, just like he commands the respect and admiration of his team of NCIS investigators.

He's not a study in contrasts, which doesn't surprise McCoy at all. He is what he appears to be. He shoots straight, but he tells you only what _he_ thinks you need to know. So far, though, that hasn't proved to be difficult with McCoy's medical team's treatment of Timothy McGee. Dr. Donald Mallard, though, on the other hand, has stepped on his territory, and McCoy knows Gibbs has much respect and affection for “Ducky”, so he's trying to temper his words.

“You need to tell Dr. Mallard to refrain from making treatment suggestions about Agent McGee,” McCoy says as he types notes on the netbook. “While I'm not going to file an official complaint with the Navy about his interference--”

“Come on, Bones,” Gibbs says with a faint smile, “Ducky didn't mean anything by it.”

McCoy's eyes narrow. “What did you call me?”

“What? Bones? Isn't that what they call you around here?” Gibbs takes a sip from the ever-present cup of coffee, and gives him a wide-eyed look. “Earned because you have a reputation for being not just a trauma surgeon but you're a damn good orthopaedist.”

“Yeah, well.” McCoy looks down into the chart again. “That was a while back. Thought I wanted to be a joint surgeon just like my dad, but the Navy really needed trauma specialists.”

“So you went back into training and did a rotation at Georgetown in emergency medicine.” Gibbs sits up and leans into McCoy's space. “Question is, why the Navy? Why leave the cushy Emory hospital appointment at all?”

McCoy huffs. “You seem to know it all, you tell me.”

Gibbs smiles then and shakes his head. “I'm a big believer in hearing it straight from the horse's mouth. Call it an investigator's m.o.”

 _God, where to start?_ McCoy thinks for a few minutes, and then decides to give Gibbs the full story. “Truth is, I didn't leave Emory on my own. I was asked to resign.”

He waits, thinking Gibbs is going to react in some way, but he doesn't. He just gives him that placid stare and faintly nods his head for McCoy to continue. “After my dad died, I . . . had a crisis of faith.” He swallows hard. “I lost my way—as a son, as a doctor, as a husband. As a human being. And I tried to find my way back through a bottle of bourbon.” He snorts. “Many, many bottles.”

Gibbs doesn't say anything, but silent, solid encouragement rolls off him. “Nearly lost my medical license. Definitely lost my wife and access to my daughter.” Gibbs does stiffen at that admission. “So to save me, the Chief of Surgery, an old friend of the family, asked me to take a leave, pull myself together. Instead, I did the one thing my daddy always told me I needed—personal discipline. Native intelligence got me through college and med school; native talent got me through residency. But discipline? Didn't have much of that. Drank too much, swore too much, obsessed too much.” He stops and looks at his hands. “I can fix an arterial tear in a matter of seconds. I can find a bullet in a gut and repair the damage in half the time it takes any other surgeon. But stop drinking because I failed to find a cure for my daddy's brain tumor?” He shakes his head. “Couldn't do it. Couldn't live with myself because I let him down.”

For some inexplicable reason, McCoy startles when he realizes he's said all of this to Gibbs's face, staring into pools of light blue. There's no judgment in their brightness, no sympathy, no pity; but there is compassion. Understanding.

“And the Navy?” Gibbs asks softly.

“My dad was in the Navy. 'Nam. He was a surgeon, but wanted more of an adventure so he went with a Marine unit on some very dangerous missions.” He nods. “Lost a few, saved more. Always said he learned about keeping it together in a bad situation because of that. He was a great surgeon.”

“And a great father, too.”

McCoy nods again, but is unable to look at Gibbs this time. “The best. So, here I am, at 37, two years into a six-year commitment. No real home. My daughter turns thirteen in a month, and I haven't seen her in about a year. And--”

“Wait.” Gibbs cuts in with a steely voice and a fist to the table. “You haven't seen your daughter in how long?”

McCoy sighs. “It's been since my last leave, November a year ago. I know, I know. But the custody agreement is so restrictive that--”

“McCoy, have you had JAG take a look at that agreement?”

“No, but--”

Gibbs's blue eye blaze. “No one should be denied access to their child.”

“I know that. But God, when I left, I--” He hesitates. “The divorce was awful. All I could think about was getting away from her, from my ex. She wasn't . . . bad, but she wanted nothing more to do with me because I'm a drunk and a failure and--”

“Major McCoy, you are _none_ of those,” Gibbs says. “You may have _been_ in a bad place and you may have done things you were not proud of, but you are now a Naval officer and a damn fine physician. You need to have your custody arrangement revised.”

McCoy looks at Gibbs. “Why? What's it to you?”

“Because. Because . . . Just do it.”

McCoy nods. “I will.”

“I'll make sure you do.”

At that, Gibbs's phone rings. He doesn't say anything as he rises, but his eyes lock with McCoy's. He answers the phone, and turns away.

*~*

“You need to get out of here.”

McCoy looks up from his computer. “Gibbs, I thought you'd gone hours ago.”

The former Marine is leaning in the doorway of his office. “I did. But I came back. Needed to update McGee on the case.”

McCoy is amazed at how much work NCIS agents do. Within hours of McGee's regaining consciousness, Gibbs or one of his team members had been giving him frequent reports until McCoy had had to step in and limit contact to just a few times per day. “He's got to rest, guys. The facts of the case will be there when Agent McGee wakes up,” he'd reasoned. “Besides, it gives you more time to run around actually finding who did this instead of running to tell him every little scrap of information.”

They'd argued about that, especially with DiNozzo; he'd finally taken the charts away from Ducky, and had to tell the sweet-faced goth girl to stop hugging McGee because he'd been too nice to say that it hurt when her spikey dog collar mashed into his face. Still, McCoy is proud of NCIS, warmed by their fierce loyalty to his patient and each other, and really damned impressed with their work.

“Blizzard is getting more intense,” Gibbs says patiently. “You should go home.”

“I suspect the bus has stopped running,” McCoy replies. “I can just stay here.”

“Nope. You need to get away from the hospital.”

McCoy is annoyed by the constant and repetitive demand from Gibbs. He hits 'save' harder than he intended and slams the small laptop closed. “Dammit, Gibbs, why the fuck do you care?”

“Because, McCoy, I see what's going on here. When was the last time you left this place? I see you every time I'm here, and I've been here a lot over the past seven days. Tim came in on Christmas Eve and it's now 19:32 on New Year's Eve.” McCoy can see Gibbs is getting revved up, or what passes for revved up. His voice is getting tighter and higher, his eyes are burning brighter, and the tip of his nose is turning red. He thinks he would really love to suck that red tip, to do something completely outrageous that would knock this former Marine on his luscious ass.

And then a series of unbidden images flash through his mind: Gibbs splayed out before him, that lean frame, taut muscles shifting under pale skin, legs spread wide and inviting. Gibbs is handsome, that's the first thing McCoy noticed when he fought his way into the trauma room Christmas Eve, blue eyes wild. McCoy felt his commanding presence then, feels it every time Gibbs comes to visit McGee, and feels his face flush.

_What the fuck???_

McCoy shakes his head. “You all right?” Gibbs asks.

“Um...yeah, fine.” He stands, running his hand through his hair, hair that has been mussed and pulled and run through a thousand times already, thinks McCoy, due to the close proximity of Gibbs. _Did the man never go home?_ “Look, I can crash in the on-call room.”

“No, you're not. Nurse Chapel told me, and I quote, 'If I catch McCoy in that on-call room again tonight, I'm calling security.' You've been officially off duty for three hours and I promised her I'd make sure you got out of here.”

McCoy nearly snorts. “She had no right to do that.”

“Actually, I think she does. You want to argue with her?”

Gibbs has that smirk on his face, the smirk that McCoy wants to eat off the man's handsome face. The smirk that has made him uncomfortably aroused for the past several days. Maybe if he just went along, he'd get rid of Gibbs, get rid of the arousal, get rid of these unbidden thoughts that could lead to nothing but trouble. . .

“Ok, fine. Get me the hell outta here,” McCoy says gruffly. “But I'm coming in at 0700 to do rounds.”

Gibbs does that infuriated little tick he does for acquiescence. “Ok by me, Bones. Just let her know I did my part.”

McCoy checks out of the ICU, logs out of the system, and goes to his office to grab his coat and backback. “Look, Gibbs, I can--”

“Taking you back to my place. Let's go.”

“My place is closer.”

“I'm driving.”

“So? Look, Gibbs, I live fifteen minutes from here. . .”

“You got any decent food at your place?”

McCoy is caught a little off guard by that question. “Well. . .”

“Thought so. Let's go.”

McCoy knows when he's been defeated because he regularly defeats anyone he comes up against. Gibbs is the most stubborn SOB he's ever met, besides himself. But going Gibbs's house isn't going to take care of two of his three most pressing problems.

But the number one issue is that he is to-the-bone dead tired. He'll never admit it but over the past week he's put in more hours than allowed by Navy policy, and he knows he's pushing it with his bosses. McGee is just one patient he's attending in ICU, all of them important to _him_ , protocol be damned. He figures he'll go with Gibbs, have a bourbon or two and fall into a bed and sleep for a thousand hours, or until 0700. Whichever comes first.

Fat snowflakes are coming down furiously, and by the time they climb into Gibbs's 1972 Dodge Challenger, a real beaut, McCoy is covered. “My god, does it always snow like this in DC?”

“Not usually, but then again we're having an unusual winter.” Gibbs turns over the engine; it purrs sweetly.

They don't speak for the next thirty minutes. The snow has slowed the New Year's Eve party scene down a bit or else everyone has holed up somewhere because the roads are devoid of other cars. The power is out in random places along the way; when they turn off the main road onto a neighborhood street, everything is dark. No traffic lights, no street lights, nothing. Some fool kids are outside lighting fireworks, but the snow is making that New Year's Eve ritual difficult. The cold is keeping the thinking members of society indoors, probably drinking to stay warm and keeping their minds off the fact there's no power. At least they're staying off the roads, thus reducing the strain on law enforcement and emergency rooms.

Gibbs pulls into the driveway of an unostentatious cottage house. Without a word, he stops the car and gets out. McCoy doesn't know what to do, so he follows, shouldering his pack. Gibbs is waiting for him by the steps to the porch. “Come on,” he says.

Gibbs throws open the door; the house is minimally furnished; the sofa and one chair are well-worn and mismatched. “Have a seat,” Gibbs saying, pointing to the sagging sofa and a dark fireplace. “Know how to get a fire going?”

“I do.”

“Great. Wood is on the porch. Matches on the mantle. I'm gonna get dinner started.”

“It's a little late for that, don't you think?”

“You hungry?” Gibbs asks, walking into his kitchen.

McCoy has to admit it's been a damn long time since he last ate, sometime in the early afternoon. “Yeah, guess I am.”

Gibbs doesn't respond, so McCoy busies himself with the task set to him. As he sets the fatwood on the grate and lights it, he feels calmer. It's been several years since he's lit a fire and even longer since he's cooked over one. He stares into the spreading flames, carefully placing progressively larger pieces of wood on until he has a cheery blaze going. He turns and knee-walks his way to the chair nearest the fire. Gibbs is sitting on the sofa and hands him a hot dog on a long kebob skewer. “Don't have any metal hangers.”

“Thank God for that,” McCoy replies. “The burning paint is toxic.”

Gibbs gives that head tic that McCoy is coming to appreciate. He does it to mean 'come on' or, if he's smiling, it means he's agreeing with you or happy, or, if he looks annoyed, it's means 'you're a moron, let's go.' Whatever emotion it conveys, it's perfectly Gibbs.

He stares into the fire, watching his hot dog sizzle when it hits him: _I'm analyzing Gibbs's tics and personality What the hell am I doing?_

It's not that he hasn't thought about men in a way that's more than friendship. He's had several short-term, fumbling sexual relationships with men, especially after he and Joce divorced. Even less since he'd entered the Navy: a couple of one-nighters, some blow-jobs in the men's of the bar downtown. He remembers the urge he had to kiss Gibbs earlier in the day, to turn the man's smirk into a look of passion. Because he remembers how good that look was on him the night Gibbs first kissed him, just seven days ago, when Tim came out of the coma. It had surprised the hell out of him, but he just went with it. Families and friends were often emotional when patients had a significant change in their condition; it wasn't unusual for them to hug him. But from Leory Jethro Gibbs? The master of cool repression? Either Gibbs had the hots for him or his relationship with McGee went way deeper than supervisor/supervisee. Knowing Gibbs, he probably thought of the younger man as a son.

While he's lost in these thoughts, a gentle hand comes to rest on his. “Your weenie is burning, Bones,” a soft voice whispers in his ear.

“Oh, goddamnit,” McCoy says sheepishly, shaking his head. “Just look at that.” He pulls his blackened hotdog out of the fire. “Guess I'm a little more tired than I thought.”

“It's all right. Fortunately, while you destroyed your dog, I had the forethought to roast two.” Gibbs pulls on the perfectly cooked hotdog with a bun and hands it to him. “Got some potato salad and beer back here, too.”

McCoy turns to see two paper plates and a deli container of salad. “Nice. Thanks,” he says.

Dogs properly dressed with mustard and onion, plates with salad adorned, they eat in silence, McCoy on the floor with his back to the old armchair. The beer is cold and feels good going down; the food settles easily in his stomach and the long day finally catches up with him. He rubs his eyes and yawns unselfconsciously.

When he's aware again, the small coffee table has been moved and Gibbs is depositing some blankets and pillows on the sofa. “Hey. Gonna have to sleep out here in front of the fire. Emergency responders say power won't be back on until morning most likely. Hope you don't mind.”

“Course not,” McCoy replies. “I'd rather stay warm.”

Gibbs hums. “Extra toothbrush in the bathroom. It's red.”

McCoy rises and within a few minutes has taken care of his needs for the night. When he returns, Gibbs has made up the sofa and a palette on the floor. The fire is blazing brightly, but made to burn down to keep the living room warm for the night.

“Here, sofa's yours.”

McCoy starts. He's in his boxers and t-shirt, and suddenly feels a little exposed. “No, no. I can't do that.”

“Sure you can.”

“But it's your sofa.”

“Yeah, and it's my house. My rules. You sleep on the sofa.” Gibbs's tone is firm and McCoy decides it's stupid to argue.

“Thanks.”

McCoy sits on the sofa and looks out of the window. Snow is coming down hard, and he knows he'll never make it into the hospital. With a sign he picks up his cell phone and realizes it's nearly dead. “Do you have an alarm to wake us at six?”

“Don't need one.”

McCoy grins as he realizes Gibbs probably wakes up at that time anyway, just like he does. “Thanks. I'll have to call in if we can't make it through the snow.”

Gibbs nods. “Probably won't.”

It's then that he realizes what the time is, ten after one. “Oh, we missed the turning of the new year,” he says softly.

“We did.”

McCoy closes his eyes, and then feels soft lips touch his. Unlike the kiss Gibbs gave him when McGee regained consciousness—hard and fleeting and full of relief--this kiss lingers, firm and warm; he parts his lips slightly, and feels just the tip of Gibb's tongue slowly drag across his. Then it ends, regretfully. He opens his eyes; Gibbs's wide blue eyes are right there. “Happy New Year,” Gibbs says quietly. And he pulls back to lay on the floor, covering himself with the blankets, his back to McCoy.

Confused, and strangely comforted by this gift of a New Year's kiss, McCoy pulls his feet up onto the sofa and covers up. Even though he's dead tired, it's a long time before he falls asleep, as he watches Gibbs's chest rise and fall slowly.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

McCoy awakens suddenly, jerked from a deep sleep and dreams, as if his brain and body are trying to convey important information to him. He looks around and can't remember where he is. _Shit! I didn't get drunk last night, did I?_ No, of course not. He hasn't gotten stinking drunk since. . .well, it had been a very long time, a streak he intends to keep going for the rest of his life. But the living room, the furniture, the fireplace. . . _Oh. Gibbs._ The palette on the floor is gone, and so is Gibbs.

He checks his watch and finds it's nearly 7:00. He'd slept hard, indicative of how sleep-deprived he's been and why he finds himself somewhat befuddled. He sits up slowly and stretches his arms and back. Despite the worn appearance of the sofa, it's surprisingly comfortable. The house is still and quiet and dark; the fire in the grate has burned down to glowing coals. He rises and goes over to the window. The porch is knee-deep in snow and the yard and road beyond are piled high as well, with snow still coming down. No plow has been through the neighborhood; the power obviously still out.

“Morning.”

McCoy turns to find Gibbs fully dressed and freshly showered. “Morning. Can I use your phone?”

Gibbs gives him a grin. “Before breakfast? Before _coffee_?”

McCoy scrubs his hand through his hair, and realizes he's in desperate need of a shower. “Well, now that you mention it, coffee definitely. I could use a shower. Want to be kind to my gracious host and all.”

Gibbs gives him that knowing head tic, and turns to walk towards the kitchen. “My house has a gas water heater, so there's plenty of hot water. I'll get breakfast going while you shower. Use the one in my bedroom since it has a window.”

“Thanks.”

“Towels in the hall closet.”

McCoy makes his way up the stairs, through the dark hallway to the back bedroom. The blinds are drawn up to allow the weak snow-reflected light in, adding to the two lit candles. The room is so Gibbs in its spare simplicity—a double-sized bed with a faded, ancient quilt, and two pillows. A chest of drawers with just a small pile of change on top. A small shelf unit with books. A lamp and alarm clock on a side table. Nothing on the walls. No art, no diplomas, no photographs. _And I thought I was a minimalist_ , McCoy muses as he strips down in the doorway to the bathroom. The water is hot and feels marvelous, but he doesn't linger too long. He pours Gibbs's store-brand citrus-y shampoo into his hand and snickers over the fruity smell, something that seems a little out of character for the Marine.

Standing under the stream he considers the two kisses Gibbs has given him. He'd liked them. He'd liked them both a lot. There is something definitely going on in Gibbs's mind, and heart, something that is prompting the man to give him these small demonstrations of—what? Affection? Lust? It makes him half-hard just thinking about wanting another of those firm kisses, wanting to run his fingers through the thick, gray hair, to hold Gibbs's face to his to deepen the next kiss. He thinks he's desperate to explore Gibbs's mouth, to feel Gibbs's body hard flush to his. He sighs, trying not to get his hopes up too much, and gives his cock a couple of strong pulls nonetheless. The soapy hand feels good, but the conflict over to kiss or not to kiss kills any notion of something more, so he stops.

When he finishes towel-drying his hair, he steps into the bedroom to find a pair of pale blue boxers, white socks, a plain grey t-shirt, and a navy blue cable-knit sweater on the bed. McCoy is touched that Gibbs has provided him with clean clothes. He pulls on the clothing, noting that Gibbs is trimmer than he in the waist and not as broad in the shoulders. The t-shirt is a little snug across his back, but the sweater is nicely worn and fits perfectly. His khakis from the day before are clean enough as he spent most of the day in surgical scrubs. Thinking about the scrubs, he remembers he needs to check in with the duty nurse and physician.

“Coffee?”

Gibbs meets him at the door to the bedroom with a mug. “Yes, thanks,” McCoy answers gratefully, and takes the mug from him. He inhales deeply. “You really do know how to make coffee.”

Gibbs gives him that infuriating “Well, yeaaaah,” grin, the one that makes McCoy want to jump him and never let go. “Breakfast is coming up.”

It's then that McCoy smells food cooking, and his stomach flops in response. “Nice. I think I'm hungry.”

“Wasn't much for dinner. I didn't have anything ready last night. But we have steak with our eggs and potatoes. Thank God for gas appliances,” Gibbs says as he moves down the stairs. “Come on and use the phone while the potatoes simmer.”

McCoy follows him, sipping on the hot, rich coffee. Gibbs may not splash out for fancy digs, but he definitely knows good java. He follows the older man to the kitchen, detouring to the living room to find his backpack and patient notes, pulls out a chair at the small table, and Gibbs hands him the landline handset. “Thanks.” He punches in the number to the nurses' station and waits.

“This is Dr. McCoy. Who's this?”

*~*

After coming up to speed on his patients, he sighs and puts down the pen. “McGee, Sulu, and Connor are ready for regular rooms," he tells the duty nurse. "Let's keep Nagura and Pike for a few more days; they're not as stable as I'd like. That covers it. Thanks.”

He hangs up the phone and rubs his eyes with his fingers. “Everything all right?” Gibbs asks.

“Yeah. Lost one in the night. Henderson. He was in bad shape when I got him on the table two days ago.” McCoy shakes his head. “Too much damage, too much blood loss.” He stops, and leans back in the chair with a sigh.

“Here.” Gibbs places a plate of steaming eggs, hash browns and steak in front off him. “Nothing you can do about it. Eat.”

McCoy sighs again and digs into the food. It's absolutely perfect. They don't say anything as breakfast goes down. When they finish, ten minutes later, two plates are clean, the coffee pot is empty, and McCoy seriously considers asking Gibbs if he wants a roommate.

Gibbs stands, but McCoy grabs both plates. “Cook doesn't clean,” he growls.

Gibbs holds up his hands and backs away. “I won't argue with you there.”

McCoy takes the plates and utensils to the sink. “Thank you for the food,” he says as he gathers up two frying pans, spatulas, and spoons. “It was amazing.”

“You're welcome,” Gibbs replies quietly. He turns and opens the door to the basement and goes in. “I'll be down here if you need me.”

McCoy works steadily, washing everything in sight that may or may not be dirty. He wants to be thorough, just like his mama taught him to when cleaning up a host's kitchen. When he and Jocelyn had been married, they often ate dinner with another doctor couple. If the women prepared the meal, the guys cleaned up. John Gage hadn't been the most attentive dishwasher, so Leonard had put him on put-away detail while he stuck to dishwashing. He had supposed it was the surgeon in him that made him so anal about cleanliness, but the system worked and they and the Gages remained friends until. . . .

He realizes his grip on the coffee mug could have shattered it had it been made of thinner stuff. No reason to go down that road. The Gages had abandoned him like everyone else in his life had once his excessive drinking had become fact rather that hospital scuttlebutt. John's abandonment had hurt the most since Leonard had been the one to get him through the painful withdrawal and rehabilitation from his addiction to Oxytocin. If anyone should've understood what he'd been going through, it should've been John. But John had denounced him and left him just as easily as everyone else. The only one who had stuck by him had been Mark Galen, the Chief of Surgery, friend and mentor, who had never given up on him, who had suggested he find a different situation, who went to bat for him before the medical board to make sure he kept his license. Galen had risked everything for him, and it had been for Dr. Galen, and Galen's faith in _him_ , that Leonard had put aside the bottle, went to AA, and joined Navy medical.

Since then, Leonard had found his purpose, treating and caring for the men and women who served their country. Inspired by their discipline, he'd found it himself. The challenge of learning new skills in trauma surgery had been just what he needed; using those skills in a field hospital in Afghanistan had made him appreciate the gifts and training he'd received as a surgeon. He would never take those gifts and talents, or his life, for granted again.

He dries his hands on a dish towel, then runs it over the counter to dry it. Satisfied his mama would be pleased with his cleanup job, he starts another pot of coffee in the old-fashioned aluminum dripolator on the stove, just like the one his daddy used when they went camping. He marvels at the contrast of the battered dripolator and the $20 per pound ground Kona beans, shaking his head and smiling.

*~*

The stairwell is dimly lit by a couple of Coleman lanterns and what looks like a kerosene heater below. Leonard is carrying two full mugs of coffee, and he's hoping he doesn't stumble.

“Here, I got it.”

Gibbs meets him at the foot of the stairs and takes a mug. “Thanks,” McCoy says gratefully. “Wasn't sure if I was gonna make it down without trippin' over my two left feet.”

“It's a little dark right here. Careful.” Gibbs admits. Then, in a surprising move, Gibbs takes McCoy's wrist in a strong grip, giving McCoy an anchor as he navigates the final few steps in the virtual dark. “You good?”

McCoy steadies himself now that he's got both feet level and can see better. “Yeah, good.”

Gibbs doesn't say anything, but smiles enigmatically. “Well, come on. See what I'm doing.”

McCoy shifts the hot mug to his other hand and starts to take a sip, when he spies the graceful wooden spines. “Holy shit! Are you building a boat? By hand?”

Gibbs is leaning against a heavy workbench, sipping on his coffee. “Yep. Mmm...good stuff.”

“Thanks. So, why a boat in your basement?” McCoy asks as he examines the fine sanding on one of the ribs. “Can you get it out of here when you're finished?”

Gibbs comes to stand beside him and rubs his hand gently along a rib. “I build a boat because I have to.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow at that comment. But he quickly understands it's not a joke or an ironic statement: Gibbs is being completely serious. He smoothes out the quizzical look. “So,” he asks in a low voice, “why do you have to build one?”

Gibbs is silent except for the small sound he makes as he takes another sip of coffee. “ I build a boat to honor my daughter,” he said quietly. “She loved the sea, especially loved fishing, even at a. . .young age.”

The falter contained a hint of a sob, and McCoy is transfixed by that. The silence draws out, and he can't help himself. “Jethro, what happened?” he asks.

“They died,” Gibbs replies immediately. “My wife and daughter.” He hesitates, and looks around. McCoy understands. Hell, yes, he understands, so he allows Gibbs the time to find the words.

“They died because my wife witnessed something she should have never seen. I was off fighting in the Gulf War and they died while I was there.” He swallows hard. “I hadn't seen them for a couple of months,” he says hoarsely.

Again, McCoy doesn't say anything; he waits for Gibbs to continue, but his heart is in his throat.

“Mexican drug dealer got them, shot the driver of their car and they died in the ensuing crash. And then,” Gibbs says fiercely, “I got _him_.”

McCoy nods.

“And when I say you fight to see your daughter, Bones, I mean you use everything you can to gain access to and custody of her.” Gibbs's eyes grow bluer in the dim light. “You do everything you can to make sure you never lose her. I lost mine and I'll never see her again or hear her laugh again or be able to tuck her into bed again. Kelly is gone, but your daughter is still here. You fight, ok?”

With that, Gibbs drops his coffee onto the floor and grabs McCoy by the shoulders. McCoy barely remembers to put his mug on ledge of the boat. “You fight!” Gibbs says, and then he crushes his mouth to McCoy's.

It's all McCoy can do to hang on as Gibbs pulls him tightly to his hard body. McCoy wraps his arms around Gibbs's trim waist, allows a hand to run up under the grey sweatshirt to find warm skin. Gibbs's hands are in his hair, around his back, on his ass while his tongue plunges into McCoy's mouth, seeking out every crevice and cranny. He tastes of coffee and good food and a fierceness McCoy has never experienced with any other person in his life. And he _loves_ it. He loves how Gibbs _takes_ him, sets his senses and his body on fire; he feels Gibbs's cock, throbbing and insistent against his hip, and his mind goes white with desire.

McCoy turns Gibbs around so that his back is away from the boat. He walks him slowly towards the wooden workbench so that he can press this luscious man to it, trapping him so that _this_ will never end. So that he can rub up against this man and not allow him the chance to escape, from the myriad of emotions he's experiencing, from the passion building between them, from the sheer joy of _feeling_ the wildly beating heart of another human being so close to his own.

Gibbs presses his cock into McCoy's hip, his hands gripping McCoy's ass so hard there will surely be bruises. McCoy rubs his dick sinuously into Gibbs's, eliciting the most erotic moan he's ever heard. Gibbs's head falls back, breaking the kiss as he continues to grind against McCoy's hip. But McCoy is having none of it; he grabs the nape of Gibbs's neck and pulls his head back, finally able to run his fingers through the soft, silvery threads, feel the coarseness of the closely shorn hair at his neck. He runs his tongue along the tops of Gibbs's teeth, more gently than Gibbs, and Gibbs responds by rolling his tongue around McCoy's, a dance of give and take.

As McCoy holds Gibbs's head in place, he feels Gibbs's breathing go up a notch and his hips undulate more frantically. He turns his pelvis to Gibbs's and breaks the kiss. “Go, Jethro, let go,” he rasps, pressing their foreheads together, allowing Gibbs to breathe more easily. Gibbs gives a moan, and jerks, hugging McCoy more closely and then a tremendous relieved sigh. McCoy holds him tightly, and sounds of Gibbs coming triggers his own release, his cock trapped by Gibb's thigh and hipbone. His mind wipes and he comes so hard he actually sees stars.

He doesn't know how long it takes them to come back to reality. But Gibbs is actually holding him upright, running his hand through his hair and whispering, “I've got you, Bones. Got you right here with me.” McCoy groans and stands upright again, clutching at Gibb's shoulders.

“Wow,” McCoy says, sighing. “That was new.”

“What? Orgasm? Or, orgasm with another man?”

McCoy barks a laugh. “No, the passing out part.”

“Well, the coming with another man,” Gibbs says, “new to me.”

McCoy pulls back to look into Gibbs's eyes. “You okay?”

Gibbs blinks several times and then closes his eyes. “I—I think so. I've occasionally had feelings for. . . . men, but never acted on them. Until now.” He opens his eyes again and looks directly to McCoy. “Until you.”

McCoy sees no shame, only honesty and desire. “I've known, too, for a while, and rarely acted on it,” McCoy admits. “But you are the first one I've actually known.”

Gibbs holds his gaze for a long while, then smiles. “Aren't we a pair?”

McCoy snorts softly. “A pair of horses' asses for sure.”

They part, grimacing as they move. “Don't know about you, but last time I came in my pants I was seventeen. Care for a shower?” Gibbs asks.

McCoy doesn't answer, but grabs Gibbs by the wrist and tugs at him.

Gibbs hastily turns off one of the lanterns and the kerosene heater, and picks up the still lit lantern. “We can use this upstairs.”

McCoy doesn't need any light to get up the steps to Gibbs's shower and, hopefully, bed; he's floating.

*~*

Gibbs awakens just as McCoy slips back into bed. “Put some more wood on the fire and called in again. Sounds like the storm is finally breaking and roads will be cleared,” McCoy whispers as Gibbs moves to wrap around him. “But the hospital's adequately covered and they don't need me.”

“Good.” Gibbs buries his face in McCoy's neck and inhales. “Tony and Ziva have handed McGee's case off to the cyber crimes team. They'll work that angle since we caught the shooters two days ago.”

McCoy twists his head around. “You didn't tell me that.”

“Didn't think you needed to know.”

“Huh.”

They're silent for a moment. “Should've told you,” Gibbs says.

McCoy examines how he feels about that. Should Gibbs have said anything? It wasn't part of McGee's treatment plan nor anything to do with how McCoy did his job. In the end, he's a doctor treating a patient who was involved with the tracking and capture of his own suspect, even while under the influence of heavy pain medication. McCoy had had to bring some of those discussions to a halt when McGee showed signs of distress. _That_ had been, and always will be, his job: the care of his patient.

“Actually, no, it doesn't matter,” McCoy says finally. “None of my business.”

Gibbs is quiet, but then rolls on top of him. He leans in and give McCoy a long, sensuous kiss with plenty of tongue and rolling hips. McCoy loves the feel of Gibbs's dense weight on him. They've been in bed for the better part of the day, kissing, hugging, touching, exploring the other's body, seeing what makes the other shudder with pleasure. They'd jerked each other off after their shower, touching the other's dick, comparing notes on what got them off the quickest. They'd slept closely together, sharing body heat and a pillow, something McCoy found he'd missed terribly. It has been for these two driven workaholics a decadent sort of day, one free of responsibility and schedules, one free to simply _be_ , a luxury that didn't come their way often. And now, with Gibbs stretched out on top of him, planting kisses on his cheeks and lips, McCoy feels free to run his hands through his hair. His fingers get caught in a tangle and tug on Gibbs's hair just a little. Gibbs gives a great moan and shivers.

“Sorry. You ok?” McCoy asks against Gibbs's lips.

“Do that again,” Gibbs whispers roughly.

McCoy nearly laughs, but instead pulls Gibbs's head down to mash their lips together and tugs more forcefully on the hairs on the back of his head. Gibb moans again. McCoy rolls them over so they are on their sides, tangling their legs together, and he pulls again, this time pulling Gibbs's head back to expose his neck. He suckles on the pulse points, kisses along the strong jawline to the sensitive skin behind Gibbs's ear. He knows he loves it when someone nibbles there, and hopes Gibbs does too. And from the way Gibbs reacts, he does.

“Jesus Christ, Bones, that was--”

McCoy doesn't give him a chance to continue. He dives back in to nip at Gibbs's earlobe, while he scrapes his fingernails across Gibbs's right nipple. Gibbs bucks and gasps at the contact. McCoy pinches it, hard, and Gibbs's back nearly bows.

“Has no one ever done that to you?” McCoy asks, as he finds the left and pinches and twists it.

Gibbs is gasping so hard, he cannot answer. McCoy releases him, and then Gibbs says, “I don't remember it if they did.”

“How long's it been since you've gotten laid?”

Gibbs blinks. “A while, I guess.”

“And never with a guy?”

Gibbs shakes his head.

“You want to?”

Gibbs stares at him. “Want to what?”

“Get fucked?”

Gibbs's eyes grow wide, and McCoy watches him processing that request. “I—Yes,” he says finally.

“You do know it involves me putting my dick up your ass, right?” McCoy asks.

Gibbs slaps the back of his head. “Yes, I know that,” he clips out.

“Ow! Fuck. Just checking,” McCoy says, rubbing his head “You hit me!”

“Well, don't ask stupid questions,” Gibbs huffs.

“No need to hit me. Jesus. I'm not Tony.”

Gibbs pulls him in for another kiss. When he finishes, his blue eyes are dark with desire. “No, you're not, thank God.”

A thousand questions bubble up inside of McCoy, curious about Gibbs's team and their relationships. But then Gibbs's hand slides up his stomach to his chest, fingers dancing through the hair, scraping and finding his nipple.

McCoy hisses. “You've found one of my pleasure points.”

“Ahhhh,” Gibbs says. And then he goes to work torturing McCoy into incoherency.

McCoy is gasping as Gibbs sucks another blister into the soft skin of this neck. The man may not have any experience making out with another man, but he certainly is a fast learner. Never has anyone, male or female, aroused him so thoroughly, so completely. Gibbs remembers how each sigh or gasp or hitch in his breathing came about, what he had done and just how hard he'd pinched or bit or sucked on it. McCoy is harder than he's ever been, and thinks if he doesn't get off soon, his dick just might explode.

“So do you wanna?” McCoy asks, stretching his neck to give Gibbs access to it.

Between bites, Gibbs answers. “Yes. Yes. And yes.”

“Do you have a condom and some lube?”

That stops the biting. Gibbs raises his head to look at him. “I think the condoms are okay, but lube. . .”

“Fortunately for you, I'm a doctor, and I travel prepared.”

Gibbs rolls over to allow him to get out of bed. “I'll bet you were a Boy Scout,” he calls after McCoy's retreating figure.

“No. I wasn't,” McCoy says from the stairs. He climbs to the second floor and enters the bedroom again with his backpack in hand, and the front compartment open. “But I am a trauma surgeon, and I never go anywhere without my bag of goodies.”

“Condoms?”

“Never know when you need to hand some out to junkies and prostitutes.” He gets back into bed with the backpack. “Geez, it's cold up here in your room.”

Gibbs laughs as he slides his hand along McCoy's face and into his hair. “You're so caring.”

“Nothing to do with caring and all about serving the public good,” McCoy says ripping one off the roll and putting on the pillow beside him. He digs around for a tube of lube and extracts it.

“Carry lube with you, too, huh?”

McCoy flicks Gibbs's nose with his forefinger. “Get your mind outta the gutter, man. It's medical grade and I use it to intubate.” Gibbs grimaces at that. “Now the edible flavored kind, and make note of this, my favorite is strawberry, is at home. So you'll just have to wait until we can get to my place to have us a real party.”

He leans in and kisses Gibbs's breath away. McCoy thinks he'll never not want to kiss the man in his arms. Responsive, curious, sexy—Jesus Fucking Christ, _so sexy_. But it's early and Gibbs is—well, he's not sure what Gibbs is really thinking about being with a man. Just that he wants to be with him, right now, in this moment. McCoy tries not to let his imagination runaway too far into the future, but he has seen mental images of what _could_ be, what he might want, a life with this man—growing old, well, growing _older_ with him. He sees it. He thinks he might want it.

While he's kissing Gibbs, McCoy pops the top on the lube and coats his fingers with it. It's relatively warm, since it was close to the fireplace. Breaking the kiss, he looks deeply into Gibbs's eyes. “We don't have to do this. It was just a suggestion, something I've always wanted to do but haven't yet.”

“Why not?”

McCoy inhales, and can be nothing but honest with Jethro Gibbs. “Because I've never trusted anyone else. Not until I met you.”

Gibbs gazes at him and then nods. “Me, too.” He swallows. “I want you to. I want to have sex with you.”

McCoy nods too, and shows him his lube-covered fingers. “Pull your knees up. I'm gonna touch you, all right?”

Gibbs nods, and adjusts his legs. McCoy moves closer, wraps his arm around Gibbs's neck under the pillow. “Ok, then.” Gibbs jumps a little when he touches his bottom, but kisses McCoy, who takes that as a signal to keep going. He circles the tight muscle slowly, carefully gauging Gibbs's reaction. The sounds, whimpers and whispered curses, go straight to his cock. “I'm going to push my finger in,” he says softly. “Is that all right?”

Gibbs rolls his eyes. “I'm not some blushing bride, for Christ's sake, just—oh!”

McCoy smiles. “Mmm, tight. Hot.”

He circles the muscle, then removes his finger to cover it with more lube. “It's important to go slowly and use lots of lube, Jethro. I'll not hurt you if I can help it.”

“Thought you'd never done this.”

“Haven't. Well, not with a guy.” He smiles wickedly.

Gibbs's eyes grow wide, then he, too, grins. “Oh, yeah. Did that a couple of times with--”

“Shhh. Concentrate on you,” McCoy shushes as he pushes his finger in, and then adds a second. “Too much?” Gibbs shakes his head, but grips McCoy's arm tighter. “It'll get better.”

Finally, _finally_ , McCoy has Gibbs relaxed to his satisfaction. He reaches for the condom, opens the package and then rolls it onto his dick quickly. He's afraid if he touches himself too much, he'll blow, and that would _blow_. He coats it liberally with the lube, and then rolls over and insinuates himself between the legs of a panting Gibbs.

“Now, you gotta do it now,” Gibbs says, gripping McCoy's arm. “I'm dying here.”

“You're not dying, but clearly you're in need,” McCoy says, laughing softly. “You ready?”

“Dying.”

McCoy slides between Gibbs's trembling legs. He looks closely at the older man, sees his pupils blown with desire and passion and naked _need_. Even after two orgasms over the course of the day, Gibbs is shaking. McCoy positions himself and pushes in slowly.

Gibbs's back arches and he moans. “Godddddamn,” he breathes. “Fuck!”

That's the encouragement McCoy needs to keep going and he controls his push into Gibbs's tight channel. He's shaking from need as well, a need to just plunge in and _take_ this man, make him his own, make him scream in passion. Gibbs is moaning louder and McCoy takes a chance, and pushes in until his balls rest against Gibbs's ass. It's nearly overwhelming, the heat and tightness of Gibbs's body. He know he won't last long, but he waits for Gibbs to stop panting to make sure he's not hurting. McCoy gives an experimental slide back and forth, watching Gibbs's face. The handsome features relax into a moue of surprise and passion.

“That—that feels amazing,” Gibbs whispers.

McCoy smiles and leans in to kiss him, long and sweetly. “It's supposed to.” He thrusts in and out again, faster, and Gibbs's eye roll back into his head. “Still feels good?”

Gibbs nods and lifts his hips to wrap his legs around McCoy's waist. Changing the angle, McCoy's cock passes over Gibbs's prostate and that elicits another magnificent moan. “Fuck, what--?” McCoy does it again and again, and Gibbs is shaking and sweating. “Jesus, Bones, jesus. Don't stop!”

McCoy sets up an increasingly faster pace, watching Gibbs's face as he stimulates the prostate over and over. Gibbs gives a shout and McCoy feels wet warmth erupt from Gibbs's cock that's smashed between their abdomens. Hearing and seeing and feeling the joy of Gibbs's orgasm rushes through him and he shatters.

“Holy shit, that was--” Gibbs can't find the words, but he holds McCoy closely in an iron grip. “That was--”

“Yeah, it was,” McCoy finishes for him. “Look, I'm gonna pull out, get us cleaned up. Gotta tell ya I'm done for.”

Gibbs yawns, but is reluctant to let McCoy go. “Me, too,” he says softly.

McCoy shifts and pulls out slowly. “That is definitely a weird sensation, a wrong one for being in bed,” Gibbs says.

“You'll get used to it,” McCoy says. He ambles to the bathroom and flushes the used condom. He returns with a warm washcloth, and Gibbs is snoring lightly. McCoy smiles as he wipes Gibbs's crusty chest and stomach. “I guess I'll get used to it too.”

As he returns to bed, he hears and sees the power come back on. The furnace comes to life, and a light glows in the front room. The bedroom remains lit by only a few candles, which McCoy blows out, and then he slides into bed, wrapping himself around Gibbs. Gibbs takes his hand and places it on his chest.

McCoy sighs contentedly. He could definitely get used to this.


	4. IV.

IV.

The dream he's having is a really good one. He's back in Georgia, sitting on the wide porch of the old farm house that belongs to his father's parents. People move about him, eating, laughing, talking. The words are indistinct, but the sweet, soft, blurred accent of the low country washes over him like a gentle wave. The scene shifts to a trail through the heavily wooded property, the back portion of the McCoy ancestral land. He hasn't hiked the trails in years, but he remembers them from when he was a kid, chasing his cousins and uncles through the trees and bushes, playing 'Capture the Flag'. Something warm rubs up against his side—pale yellow fur and big brown eyes, a pink tongue lapping at his face. Buster. But Buster's been dead for years, so why is his face getting wetter? Doesn't matter, because Buster is here. . . .

His conscious mind swims up through the memories and the fog of sleep to the realization that it's not Buster but rather a very warm, very handsome, very _male_ human who is pressing kisses and small licks to his face and lips and neck. _No wonder I thought it was a dog_ , McCoy thinks, and it causes him to smile.

“What?”

McCoy turns to Gibbs, who is just inches from McCoy's eyes; Gibbs has that sly, wanna-eat-you-with-a-spoon look, and it sends a slight shiver through him. Since last night—hell, since a week ago when Gibbs planted a wholly spontaneous kiss on him--McCoy has been overwhelmed with the sight, the smell, the thought, the passion of Jethro Gibbs. Gibbs is a quiet man, but his presence is pervasive, insistent. McCoy can't get the man out of his head, and now, he thinks, Gibbs is taking over his heart.

“I'm—it's just. . . .” McCoy sighs. _I'm falling for you, and I don't know what to do with that._ “I was having this really nice dream.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you remind me of my favorite dog.”

Gibbs looks surprised for a split second, but then the smile steals across his handsome features; his eyes light up and crinkle at the corners. “Woof,” he says, then laughs quietly.

It's genuine and fantastic, and McCoy can't help but echo the feeling with a return smile. Gibbs leans in and kisses him breathless. He levers up to take McCoy in his arms, crushing him to his own body. After everything they did yesterday and last night, McCoy is amazed to feel his cock swell in anticipation, and feels the hard insistence of Gibbs's against his thigh.

Gibbs shifts and changes the angle of his tongue. Soft and thick, it fills McCoy's mouth as well as his heart. McCoy rolls them over so they are on their sides, and tangles their legs together, sliding his foot up Gibbs's hard, muscled calf. He wants to glory in Gibbs's fit body; all he can think about is _Gibbs_ , and his incredible dick, his smile, his pale blue eyes, his voice.

Gibbs ends the kiss with a series of small smooches, ones that endear him to McCoy, and as he presses their foreheads together, McCoy can't help giving him a return lingering kiss. Gibbs runs his hand through McCoy's already mussed hair. “I can't believe you don't have any gray,” Gibbs whispers.

“My mama still has very little silver in hers,” McCoy replies. “I've always favored her, so it's likely I won't go gray for a while yet.”

“Lucky.”

McCoy smiles. “I don't know. I like yours.” He touches Gibbs's face then, tracing the worry lines in his forehead and the deep laugh lines around his mouth. “Fits you.”

“Fits my old ass.”

McCoy leans back to look Gibbs in the eyes. “Jethro, there is nothing 'old' about you. You can run rings around the youngest of your team. Other than you've been alive longer and have more experience than all of them put together, 'old' is not the first word I think of when I see you.” He kisses Gibbs soundly, licking the man's lips slowly as he pulls back. “And you have the staying power of a fucking teenager.”

Gibbs rolls his eyes and blushes, but caresses McCoy's cheek and mouth with his thumb. After a moment he says quietly, “Guess I have good reason to.”

McCoy takes Gibbs in his arms and they cuddle. _Cuddle?_ McCoy didn't even do it when he was married. Not much. But he could get used to it, with the waves of contentment, and arousal, that shudder through him. The two feelings are seemingly contradictory, he muses, but are they? Never before has he felt so completely at home in his own skin, and yet, he wants to crawl out of his and into Jethro's and just stay there.

Gibbs wriggles free of his arms and begins to worship McCoy's nipples, first by kissing them, then licking them with kitty licks. McCoy gasps and arches and stretches; this early in the morning he can hardly stand the overwhelming sensation to his most sensitive and arousing place. “Jethro,” he breathes.

The small licks turn to full-on lav, deep, broad tongue swipes, then he blows on them, making them draw up into hard puckers. “Jesus! You're driving me mad!”

“Good.” Gibbs then bites his left nipple and tugs on it, making McCoy moan. He takes McCoy's stiff dick in his hand and makes slow, torturously slow, pulls on it; he slides the palm across the leaking head and smears it on the dry shaft. “Feel ok?”

“Ok? It's amazin'.” McCoy can hardly string enough words together to get the thought out. That Gibbs is making his blood surge, that his hand is doing wicked things to his already impossibly hard cock, that his tongue is sending shockwaves all the way down to his toenails, that he's not felt this way in forever.

“Wanna fuck you,” Gibbs whispers in his ear. “Like you did to me.”

He says this without looking at McCoy, almost like he's shy or embarrassed or uncertain. Like he'll be rejected. McCoy takes his chin in between his thumb and forefinger and pushes his face up. “Of course you can. Want you to.”

That elicits a voracious kiss and a groan from the man. McCoy loves that Gibbs asked him instead of just doing. He looks over his shoulder at the nightstand and retrieves the lube and box of condoms. “Your tools, sir.”

Gibbs grins and rolls over. “Don't know about you, but I could go off in about two seconds if I'm not careful.”

“Take a deep breath,” McCoy advises as he shifts onto his back and spreads his legs. “That, and the first time you stick your fingers up my ass will put you off a little.

Gibbs squeezes the lube out and rubs it on his fingers. “Don't think so. All I can think about is how sweet your ass is gonna feel running along my dick.”

McCoy moans and pulls him in for a kiss as he feels the lukewarm lube on his entrance. “One finger, then another, but take your time. Don't wanna hurt me.” He smiles again as Gibbs's finger breaches him. “Remember, I'm a virgin, too.”

Five minutes and three thrusts later, Gibbs is a goner. So is McCoy.

*~*

Gibbs pulls into a slot in the visitor parking lot and turns off the engine of the old truck. He hadn't had the heart to bring out the Charger, risking someone sliding into it on the still-icy roads up to the naval hospital. They'd loaded up the bed with firewood, adding weight to give the back wheels some traction. For a brief moment, McCoy had hoped Jethro would declare the roads unfit for human travel, drag him back into the house, and get right back into the warm bed they'd left two hours before. It is definitely wishful thinking on McCoy's part, even though his responsible doctor side is screaming at him to get to work. Driving in, the roads had been passable, but just barely. As he held onto the door handle, knuckles white, McCoy had entertained thoughts of them turning around and heading back, but had known in his more rational mind that Gibbs was an excellent driver.

Gibbs shifts to face McCoy, who is busy making sure he hasn't left or dropped anything. Of course he hasn't. He's precise and everything is secure in his backpack; right now, he'd do anything to delay going outside the bubble he and Gibbs had created over the past thirty-six hours, even the hours spent sleeping apart on that snowy New Year's Eve. They've been the best thirty-six hours he's had in forever. Just to be with someone who _wants_ to be with him, who wants his body, his cock, his lips. It had been such a long time since he'd felt that rush of lust for another, and to have it returned in equal measure. He has patients who need his skills as a physician and surgeon; he has Joanna who wants him as a daddy. But Gibbs had wanted _him_. Or, at least he acted like he did. And sure, maybe it was just because he was convenient or easy or whatever, but McCoy thinks from his side that there was something much more than just the need for a good, hard fuck or wanting to feel a warm body next to his in the dark of the night. No, McCoy had _enjoyed_ being with Jethro, truly loved the time, in bed and out, just _being_ with the man, in his presence, even when they weren't talking or sanding boat parts or cooking a meal or sitting in front of the fire, sitting so closely to each other they were practically in the other's lap. But then again, what if it was just because he had been convenient to Gibbs?

He shakes his head as the self-doubt threatens to crash in around his head.

“Hey, you all right?” Gibbs asks, concern evident in his eyes.

McCoy looks straight ahead, into a huge pile of gray-white snow that's been plowed to make way for the cars of family and friends who want to visit sick and injured loved ones. He had that once, a family who cared for him, who gave a shit if he was running a fever or needed stitches or had to stay overnight in the hospital to have his appendix out. But now, who's there for him?

“Yeah, I'm fine,” McCoy growls. “Just gathering my thoughts together for the day ahead.”

Gibbs nods his head. “Guess we need to get going then.”

“Yep.”

They both sit still for several long seconds, Gibbs tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel and McCoy watching his hands. It's a good kind of silence, one that doesn't push either to say anything or make a move. McCoy follows the beats and finally they slow to a heart rhythm and stop.

“Well . . . .”

“Yeah. . . .”

Before McCoy can think, Gibbs is all over him, his lips crushed to his, hands—such beautiful hands—cradling his face and head. His tongue is insistent and demanding, hot and needy. When he breaks it off, Gibbs is breathing hard, just as McCoy is. “Don't want to go,” Gibbs whispers.

“Nor I.”

Gibbs looks up and smiles, smiles brightly without a hint of enigma. “You have patients to see.”

McCoy huffs. “You have bad guys to catch.”

Gibbs holds his attention for a moment longer, then gives that head tic. “That I do.”

They open their respective doors simultaneously; Gibbs's has frozen a little since they initially unstuck them with hot water; the snow may have stopped but the temperature is still well below freezing.

“Dammit!” he mutters as he leads with his shoulder to force it open.

“Don't do it that way!” McCoy barks. “You wanna damage your joint?” He shoves the door open and alights from the car, slipping as he does. He catches himself, just barely, on the edge of the truck bed. The top of the bed is covered in ice and his hand burns. “Fuck. Shoulda left my gloves on.”

He finds his footing and stands, walking gingerly around the truck. “Why'd they even bother plowing if they're not gonna scrape the fucking ice?” He slides again as he rounds to the driver's side. “Fuck!” He reaches the door, grasps the handle and yanks hard.

Gibbs has swiveled around in the seat and gotten his foot free to help open the door. He gives it an almighty jab just as McCoy pulls and the door flies open. “Jesus!” McCoy yelps. “Warn me, huh?”

Gibbs slides out gracefully and gives him a grin. “Pay attention next time.”

“Pay—I nearly broke my neck gettin' here!” McCoy is outraged. Sort of.

Gibbs laughs and ducks back into the cab to retrieve McCoy's backpack. “You look fine to me,” he says.

McCoy grumbles, “Yeah, well, you weren't the one slippin' and slidin' and fearin' for your life.”

Gibbs takes his arm. “You need an escort, Bones?”

“No, I do not.” But he doesn't move his arm.

Gibbs, though, does release him, and they walk in silence to the entrance of the hospital. It's going on mid-morning, and the lobby is bustling with people. He stops McCoy with a subtle touch to McCoy's back. “Wait,” he says. He leads McCoy to the side of the covered walkway. “Uh. . .take care, all right?”

McCoy hears a note of concern there and raises an eyebrow. “Anything I should know about?”

Gibbs shakes his head. “Nope. I just—you—just take care.”

“I'm not the one toting a gun and chasing bad guys.”

Gibbs smiles. “True. But you wield a mean hypodermic needle.”

McCoy grins evilly in return. “It's what I live for.”

*~*

 

The day has been long and busy. Two relatively minor emergency surgeries and several consultations later, McCoy drops into his office chair and begins the laborious process of updating patient charts, most of the information from memory. He's had enough coffee to float a battleship—two cups courtesy of Gibbs, came and went. The second cup had been especially memorable:

_”Looks like you could use this,” Gibbs says, meeting him at the nurses' station outside the recovery room._

_McCoy, dazed from concentrating on figuring the correct dosage for his patient's antibiotic, looks up; it takes a few seconds for him to realize Jethro is talking to him and that he's holding a tall white cup of his favorite coffee. “Wow. I guess so.”_

_“Been busy?”_

_“Yeah, a little. Think I'm done with surgery for today, though.”_

_“Good.” Gibbs leans against the desk and takes a sip from his cup. “Got a minute?”_

_“Yeah.” McCoy glances back down at the computer and makes the final entry. “Actually, I literally have about five before I have to make rounds again.”_

_“Great. C'mere.”_

_Gibbs leads him over to the stairwell, and opens the door, turning to tug McCoy in by the sleeve of his medical jacket. Once the door slams shut behind him, Gibbs pushes him up against the wall and crushes his lips to McCoy's. McCoy wraps his hands on the man's hips and pulls his pelvis flush to his. Gibbs is nearly hard and McCoy gets there in record time. Feeling Gibbs's warmth and passion so evident melts the weariness away, infuses him with new vigor. One of Gibbs's hands has found its way to McCoy's ass and he feels a strong squeeze that makes his cock jump in anticipation. Bottoming for Gibbs earlier had been fucking amazing; he didn't think he'd like it, but he had loved it. Loved how Jethro had slid into him with an awesome, bone-shaking moan that had made him moan in response; loved how shattered Jethro had looked when he first thrust, and the next, and the next; loved how broken he had sounded when he had ground out, “Shit, gonna come!”; loved how Jethro had angled himself to find his prostate, had hit it with each orgasmic pulse and didn't quit until McCoy had gasped and come._

_Gibbs kisses him until the need to breathe is undeniable. They part, chests heaving. McCoy cradles Gibbs's head in the crook of his arm, his hand stroking Gibbs's afternoon stubble. “Missed you,” Gibbs whispers._

_“Missed you, too.”_

_Gibbs gives him another kiss, this one slow and sensuous. “See you later.”_

_It's not a question. McCoy leans in and kisses him again. “Yep. I'll be ready to go about seven.”_

_Gibbs gives him the smile and silently leaves the stairwell._

So lost is he in the memories of that morning and Jethro Gibbs with his shy, sly smile, he momentarily forgets his fatigue, looking forward to being with him later, and doesn't hear the soft snick as his office door closes.

*~*

“Cyber crimes has closed in on Mario Corelli. The other team is handling the warrant and arrest,” Gibbs says as he enters McGee's room. David and DiNozzo sit in chairs going over case notes.

“Still pissed the Director gave our collar away,” DiNozzo grouses. “Corelli was ours.”

“That is NCIS protocol,” Ziva David reminds him, rolling her eyes. “We have been over this. Many times, Tony.”

“Still pissed.”

Gibbs shakes his head. His team, the best he's ever had the privilege to train and work with, is fierce and loyal. He himself had wanted to be the one to arrest the bastard who had set all the forces in motion that led to McGee getting shot, resources being used up, and New Year's Eve being a total bust for an NCIS team. After the Director had realized Gibbs and his team had been working day and night to crack the case, he'd pulled them off, citing aforementioned protocol. Gibbs had fought it, and had nearly gone to the mats with the stubborn director; in the end, though, Gibbs had acknowledged his team, all of them, might have been compromised because of their close bond with Tim McGee. So he had acquiesced and then dealt with Tony's and Ziva's anger and disappointment. Despite the teasing he heaps on McGee, Tony's loyalty to their resident geeky genius is unmatched. It's what makes them so damned good together.

“So, boss, where'd you go during the snow storm?” DiNozzo asks, his face totally uninnocent.

The question bring Gibbs back to the present. “Home.”

“Ah. Guess you didn't suffer much what with a fireplace and gas appliances, huh?”

 _And a warm body next to me in bed._ “Nope.”

“One more night and I was gonna beg for space on your sofa,” DiNozzo says, smoothing down his hair and fidgeting with his shirt cuffs.

DiNozzo's attempt to engage him in conversation is borne of curiosity. Gibbs knows he, Gibbs, looks relaxed, at ease, maybe even. . .thoroughly fucked out. It's been a long, long time since he's felt that way, felt this content. And, of course, Tony (and more than likely Ziva) have noticed.

_Dr. McCoy to ICU—Code Blue! Dr. McCoy to ICU--Stat!_

The familiar name and urgency of the page startles Gibbs. Usually the ICU just sends an emergency call to McCoy's pager—he'd seen it happen several times while McCoy was performed checkups on McGee; it's faster and less intrusive. The nurses will only page him over the intercom if he doesn't respond.

“That is your doctor, is it not, McGee?” David asks.

“Yeah. He came to check on me just before you guys got here,” McGee says. “Said he had a few more patients to see before he was finished for the day.”

_Dr. McCoy, contact the ICU immediately!_

Gibbs flips open his cell phone and dials McCoy's number. He hasn't yet programmed his lover's number into speed dial; he'd been meaning to all day. He presses the numbers and waits. The phone rings but then goes to voice mail. That is definitely not the doctor's style. At all.

“Something's wrong,” he whispers.

*~*

The door closes, but McCoy is still engrossed in his thoughts and updating the charts on the laptop. It's a few seconds later that it registers someone is in the room with him. He looks up, prepared to smile, except that he looks into the face of a stranger, an older man. He's dressed in a heavy field jacket, jeans, sweatshirt.

“May I help you?” McCoy asks, curious.

“You McCoy?” the man asks in a raspy voice.

“I am Dr. Leonard McCoy, yes,” he replies. He's desperately searching his memory to call up any recognition of the man, thinks rapidly about the parents of the three patients he has in ICU, but this guy isn't coming to mind.

“You the same doc who was servin' in Afghanistan in the summer?”

McCoy is a little surprised. “I am.”

At that moment his pager goes off and he leans back to check it. “Code Blue in the ICU,” he says. “I need to go.” He rises from his chair and reaches for his cell phone, but the man leans over and grabs his hand. McCoy looks up, angry, and tries to pull away, but the man has an iron grip on him. “Who are you? What the fuck are you doin'?”

The man pulls a pistol out from under his coat and puts it in his face..

“WHOA!” McCoy shouts, instantly fearful. “What the hell is this?” He tries to pull away again, but then his hostage training kicks in and he remembers not to make the guy any more hostile or make any sudden moves that might set him, or that gun, off. “Look, I'm not gonna try to run away or anything, all right?” He feels a sudden, very welcome calm flood through him. _Try to get him to talk_ says the voice of his hostage negotiation instructor in his head. _Make contact. Be calm. Find common ground._ “Tell me what you want from me.”

“I want to talk to you,” the man says, still agitated.

McCoy takes a deep breath. “Ok. It's ok.” He looks down at his wrist and then up at the man, and tries to allow his features to soften. “If you let go of my wrist, we can sit. I'll listen to you, ok?”

The man's face is full of savage, wild anger, but he lets go nonetheless. McCoy steps back but doesn't sit. “Tell me what's--”

“You treated my son when he got blown up in some fuckin' Afghani village by a bunch of fuckin' crazy people,” the man growls, still pointing the gun in McCoy's face, his grip on the gun tightening. “You operated on him and he died. You didn't save him! Why didn't you save him? You saved _everyone_ , including the goddamn Afghani that tried to blow him and his unit up, but you didn't save my boy !

McCoy quickly realizes he's a grieving parent, a father who misses his son very much, and all he wants are some answers. His first response is to lash out in anger for anyone questioning his medical skills, but knowing how the man feels, he feels compassion and that gives him courage. But there is the matter of the gun pointed at his skull. _Be calm, be gentle. . ._

“I am so sorry for your loss, Mister---what's your name?” McCoy asks as gently as he can. His cell phone goes off, just as his pager does.

“Don't even think about answerin' those.” The man wipes his sweating face with his forearm, and it's then McCoy sees the man's finger is on the trigger. “Vinson. My son was Lt. Donald Elliott Vinson, 1st Battalion 6th Marines. His entire unit was hit by a bunch of bombs some goddamn village north of Helmond.”

McCoy rubs his forehead, thinking quickly about the 4 month tour he did in Afghanistan, several weeks in the Helmond district, a place he'd come to call “Hell on Earth”. It had been the hardest, most challenging, and most boring, tour of his medical career. Days and days on end with nothing really to do, treating cuts and bruises and bonks on the head from soccer balls, rocks and falling debris. Beating off the heat of a summer in the dusty, dry mountains of Afghanistan. Treating soldiers for rock climbing accidents and smashed fingers and a virus that laid everyone, including him, out for 48 hours. Helping locals with injuries that required stitches and minor surgeries, and one little girl who broke her arm badly. But mostly he had sat around, counting supplies and waiting for all hell to break loose. And then it did: for three very bloody days. . . .

“Jesus,” McCoy says suddenly. “I remember that. That was five months ago.”

“Yeah, it was,” Mr. Vinson says heatedly. “Five months I've been without my boy, and five months it took me to track you down, you bastard.”

“Wait!” McCoy gestures with his hands. “Just wait. Your son was--” _Dr. McCoy to the ICU—Code Blue! Dr. McCoy to ICU—Stat!_

McCoy looks around, but knows he's not going to be able to make that page. However, because he's not answering and that everyone knows he's in the hospital, someone will come looking for him. _Fuck! I need to resolve this thing, and now!_ he thinks desperately. He takes another deep breath and continues. “Ok, so your son, Mr. Vinson, he was a Marine, and he was in Helmond province. And he was in a convoy hit by a suicide bomber? ”

“Yeah.

McCoy thinks about that horrible time. “There were two of them. Suicide bombers.”

“That's right,” Vinson says. “And you—”

_Dr. McCoy, contact the ICU immediately!_

“Three armored humvees were heavily damaged, the occupants in one of them were all killed instantly,” McCoy says, thinking. “The other two had casualties and severely injured Marines.” His cell phone goes off, but he ignores it.

“Yes.”

“The injured were airlifted out, but we were under heavy fire, sniper fire. I remember, because I was the triage doc on that run. Scared the hell outta me. I hate flyin', and I hate flyin' in a 'chopper even more,” McCoy says, shuddered. “God, the destruction was enormous. It took out everything and everyone for a three-block radius.”

The man doesn't say anything as he listens.

“It was so hot and dusty. The flames from the explosions super-heated everything metal around it. We couldn't get into the humvees until the fire suppression units could do their jobs. Two of the medics tried to go in first and ended up with severe burns. The captain in charge told us all to wait, even though we could hear men screaming for help.” McCoy's vision becomes unfocused as he sees in his mind's eye the dust and the fire and the destruction and smells burning flesh and hears the screams—screams that still wake him in the middle of the night, shaking from the force of them. “Jesus God, it was the most awful thing I've ever witnessed and I have seen my share of bad shit.”

The man comes closer but McCoy doesn't see him.

“We were finally able to get into the vehicles. The one I helped evacuate, those guys, two of them had been able to wrap themselves in protective blankets which is why we weren't dealing with a bunch of burned corpses. But they were in rough shape. The Marine on the passenger side, the side that took the brunt of the blast, he--.” McCoy stops. It comes to him. _Vinson. Jesus God, the kid with bright red hair. The kid who regained consciousness once to ask that they contact his parents._ “That was your son, wasn't it?”

The man, now standing next to McCoy's chair, shrugs. “Dunno. Marines didn't tell me crap about details.”

“I remember him. Red hair, right?” McCoy says. He gulps in a shuddering breath. “After we pulled 'em out, the sniper fire started. It was all we could do to keep movin' and keep stayin' alive. The kid protecting me was firing his pistol just inches from my face. As good as he was, he couldn't stop them, couldn't stop them from shooting your son, right in my arms. Was able to protect his head, but not his torso. The other Marine, a medic helpin' me, he took a bullet to the arm, but he never dropped your son, sir. He kept goin' and he kept _me_ goin'.”

Mr. Vinson is breathing heavily. “Someone—someone took a bullet for Donny?”

“Yeah, took it for me and him. We got the four wounded into the humvees and then took 'em out of the village to the 'choppers.” McCoy gulps. “But. . .in triage medicine we start working on the ones we know we can save. We bind up the bleeders and start IV's. Your son, he was very badly wounded, with a severe head injury and internal bleeding. His right arm was mostly gone. It was. . . horrifying.”

“But you operated on him anyway?”

McCoy looks up. “I did. When we got back to the base, my boss wanted to send him on, but I knew I could do the surgery better and faster than any of 'em at the main medical facility in Kandahar. I was just doin' my rotation out at the field unit. My specialty is trauma and neurological surgery and even with the limited resources and time, I _knew_ I could do it. So I went into his skull, evacuated blood and bone and shrapnel. Another surgeon did the repair in his belly. I did a five hour surgery in two, and when he left my OR, he was alive. Barely, but he was alive.”

The man went very still. “So why didn't you just go with him on to the hospital?”

McCoy rubs his face again. “Because I was assigned to the field unit. I couldn't abandon my post, abandon where I was ordered to serve. The Marines don't work that way, Mr. Vinson.”

Vinson lowers the gun a fraction. “No. I don't suppose they do.”

“No. I was stickin' my neck out to do the surgery there, but it was my opinion your son would not have survived the transport had I not done the surgery right then.” He turns to the man, and puts a surgeon's hand on his arm. “I am so sorry. But even with all my training and all my skills, your son was just too badly injured. He lost too much blood in too short a time, and his body couldn't recover. I'm sorry.”

The man's face loses the energy it once held, and now, all McCoy can see is a father, deeply in despair, a man grieving for the loss of a beloved child.

And then, he hear, “FEDERAL AGENTS!” and the door to his office is flung open. Through it come three guns and three very serious NCIS officers. “NCIS! Drop your weapon!” Agent David shouts.

“Drop it!” DiNozzo adds.

McCoy raises his arms and says, “Don't shoot! It's ok!”

But at that moment, Vinson takes McCoy around the neck. “Back off!” Vinson shouts. “I'll shoot him.”

McCoy waves his arms. “Do as he says. Really, I have this under control.”

“Dr. McCoy, we cannot leave you,” David says.

“Yes, you can,” McCoy insists. “This is Mr. Vinson. His son was a Marine killed by a suicide bomber last summer. I was his surgeon. Now, Mr. Vinson is going to release me, but you have to trust me on this, all right? Jethro, will you trust me?”

Gibbs hasn't lowered his gun. “McCoy, I can't--”

“Yes, you can.” McCoy levels his gave at Gibbs's tight face. “Trust me.”

It's then that he feels a bash to his head, and a loud noise and the world goes blank.

*~*

He comes to with a start, and looks around, finding Chapel's concerned, anxious face starting into his. “You all right, Leo?”

McCoy touches his aching temple. “Ow. How long have I been out?”

“Not long. When we pulled you out of your office, you were still totally out, so we brought you down here to the trauma unit, just in case.” She pushes one long blonde curl out of her eyes. “Jesus, that was quite a scene.”

“Actually, I had it under control until the NCIS people barged in.” He winces as he sits up on the gurney, and feels a wave of dizziness. “Stitches?”

“Just a couple,” Chapel says, fussing with his jacket. “Good thing you were still in scrubs, because boy howdy, did your head bleed.”

McCoy chuckles. “Yeah, they tend to do that.”

“Dizzy?” she asks, and at his confirmation, she adds, “You would tell me if you were about to throw up on me, right?”

“Yeah, but I don't think I have anything to hurl if I did.”

“Well, then, lucky for you, I'm ready to take you to get some dinner,” a familiar and very welcome voice says.

McCoy sees a loving hand on his arm. “Not sure I'm up for a huge dinner, but I'll need to eat something if I'm gonna be able to take some pain meds. I think you owe me.”

“Me?” Gibbs says, smiling. “Well, yeah, maybe I do. In our defense, we were following hospital protocol on hostage situations, and you were taken hostage, Bones.” He gently lifts McCoy's chin with his forefinger to check out the wound on McCoy's head. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, but I had it under control when y'all came through the door, guns blazing.”

“Technically, no guns blazed.”

McCoy rolls his eyes, but ends up shutting them instead. “Ow. So what happened?” He feels a chill go through him. “Please tell me you didn't shoot Vinson.”

“Nah,” Gibbs says. “We had to take him into custody, though. It's--”

“Protocol, yeah, I get that.”

“The good news is,” Dr. Phil Boyce says as he comes through the door, holding an x-ray film, “is that you don't have a concussion. But you will have a mighty fine goose egg that's gonna turn all kinds of colors in the next few days.” He shakes McCoy's hand. “Glad you're ok, Leo.”

“Me, too.” He takes the x-ray and looks at it in the light. “Looks good. Wait—I was out long enough to get an x-ray?”

Boyce smiles. “You'd be surprised how fast the trauma team can motivate when it's one of their own. You were out for maybe 20 minutes.”

“Longer than I should've been.”

“Don't worry about it. You manliness is in tact,” Boyce says, grinning. “Since you take the bus, I don't have to tell you not to drive for 24 hours. And I'd really feel better if someone stayed the night with you.”

“I can take care of that,” Gibbs offers.

Boyce gives Gibbs a surprised look, but then smiles. “Great. Then since you've met all my discharge orders, I'm gonna let you go. If he starts running a fever, or babbling nonsense or throwing up--”

“Doctor, right here,” McCoy says, pointing at himself.

“Pffft,” Boyce replies. “Like I trust you to self-diagnose and then actually _do_ something about it. You're the worst.”

“Hey!”

“Anyway,” Boyce says to Gibbs, “any change, bring him back in.”

“Will do.”

Boyce leaves, and the room grows quiet. Gibbs looks around, insinuates himself between McCoy's knees and gathers McCoy into a hug. “I am so glad you're all right,” he breathes into his ear.

McCoy draws his arms about Gibbs's waist, not giving one flying damn who sees. “Me, too. But I really did have it under control.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I did.”

“Hush.”

*~*

Outside the trauma room door, David and DiNozzo trade smiles—hers smug, his astonished. “Pay up,” she says, holding out her hand. 


	5. V/Epilogue

V/Epilogue.

 

“OW! Hey, OW!”

“SHHH! Keep it down!” McGee hisses. “Ziva, stop it. OW!” He raises his arms to shield himself from David's hand.

“What. Are. You. _Doing_??” David asks, glaring at DiNozzo and McGee. She hits DiNozzo again for good measure just because she can. “And you!” She turns to McGee and hits him, less hard because he's still recovering from being shot, even 4 months later. “I thought you at least were fully grown-up. Unlike Tony here, who will never be an adult.”

“Hey, I'm an adult,” DiNozzo says. “They let me buy beer and everything.” He peers around the large round marble column in the great hall of the Smithsonian Museum of Natural Science. “Awww, look what you did. You made us lose them! Dammit, Ziva! McGeek, any way you can triangulate Gibbs's cell phone and find out where they've run off to?”

“No, you know I can't do that, Tony, not without a warrant,” McGee replies, but then he grins. “But I might be able to pick up the tracking dot I slipped into Gibbs's jacket last night.”

DiNozzo looks like Christmas had come early, and David huffs. “I take back everything bad I've ever said about you, McGeek,” DiNozzo says. “And that's a lot of stuff.” He grimaces. “Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have said all that.”

McGee rolls his eyes. “Wait. Let me---yeah, I can get enough reception in here.” McGee touches an app on his iPhone and he inputs the correct frequency information. “Yeah, that's got—well, no. Does Gibbs own two brown tweed jackets?”

“Let me see that,” DiNozzo says, taking the phone from McGee's hand. “Fuck. That thing is pinging at Gibbs's place, isn't it?” He looks around, disgusted.

As he looks up, he sees Jethro Gibbs staring down at him from the second floor balustrade. He gives all three agents a grin, and then walks away.

“I believe that is what is called being busted, yes?” Ziva says. She's satisfied that her male colleagues have been caught out by their boss. “It is disgraceful you two are following Gibbs, Dr. McCoy and his daughter around.”

“What'da'ya mean?”DiNozzo says, trying to look innocent. “Can we not visit the museum? We're taxpayers. Didn't Gibbs give us the day off? I heard that, didn't you, McGee?”

“I did. I love coming here.”

“I do, too. See?” DiNozzo is triumphant. He looks around. “Dinosaurs. That's so cool.” He wanders off the look at the large Tyrannosaurus rex display in the center of the rotunda.

“He has never been here, has he?” David comments.

“Not that I know of,” McGee replies. “Come on. There's a new exhibit on animals of the Middle Eastern desert located in the basement. I think you'll like it, Ziva.”

Ziva David starts to retrieve her colleague, but sees that DiNozzo is in the middle of a gaggle of small children, all of whom are looking intently at the large bone structure. Tony reaches a hand up to touch one of the bones of the creature.

“Don't touch!” a little girl screeches. “You're not supposed to touch!” That sets most of the other kids, who point at him and tell him not to touch.

“I know that,” DiNozzo says, quickly pulling his hand away.

“Sir, were you going to touch that exhibit piece?” a security guard, a very large security guard, asks. “Move away from the exhibit, sir.”

“But I wasn't--”

The security guard crooks his finger at DiNozzo. “You're going to have to come with me, sir.”

DiNozzo growls at the kids around him. “Snitches. Dirty little snitches.”

The kids shriek and move away from him. “If you know what's best, you'll come right now, sir,” the guard says again.

DiNozzo sighs. “Look, I'm a federal agent.” He reaches into his back pocket to show the guard his credentials, but he can't find them. “I'm with—what the—hey, who took my wallet? Dammit, arrest those little shits!”

“Come with me, sir.”

*~*

David grins evilly as she and McGee survey DiNozzo's predicament. “Ziva, you didn't?” McGee says affectionately.

“He will have to use all of his considerable charm to wiggle out of this one,” she says, patting her jacket pocket.

“I do love your style,” McGee says. “The exhibit is down these stairs.”

*~*

McCoy looks around and finds Jethro standing on the balustrade around the second floor. He watches as he turns to walk back towards him. Damn, but the man has a sexy stroll.

“Everything all right?” McCoy inquires.

Gibbs comes to stand close to him, close enough to take McCoy's hand in his and give it a squeeze. “Yep.”

“Your people aren't too bright sometimes. Don't they know you know everything?”

Gibbs laughs quietly. “You'd think they'd get that by now.”

“I can't believe they thought they could get away with tailing us in here. I mean, I know it's crowded, but geez, it's _you_.” McCoy walks slowly towards a blissfully people-free space in the exhibit on aquatic flora with Gibbs still holding his hand. “Do they really think that just because you're with me, your super-awesome Gibbs powers go away?” McCoy shakes his head and laughs.

Gibbs pulls him into a corner, and gives him a quick, hard kiss. “They aren't. Besides, Ziva took care of them.” He kisses McCoy again and then steps back. “Not a really good place to do this.”

McCoy knows it's not that it's because they're two guys that makes Gibbs uncomfortable; they're both uneasy with flagrant displays of affection in public of any kind with anyone. Except Joanna. Even at 13, she's been a little clingy with her father, and he's accommodated that. Which is why Gibbs had suggested a trip to the museums and that Abby come along as a guide and companion for the teenager. After four days alone with her dad, McCoy thought Joanna could use some girl time. Abby isn't in any where near Joanna's age, but the forensic scientist's youthful attitude and enthusiasm, and obvious intelligence, made her a perfect candidate. She and Joanna had gotten on very well when McCoy had visited the NCIS offices earlier in the week.

_”Pardon, but is Agent Gibbs around?”_

_Tony DiNozzo looks up quickly and answers, “He's in with Director Vance, but I'm sure if I called up there, he'd be grateful, Dr. McCoy.”_

_McCoy shakes his head. “Not necessary. It's just that--”_

_“How can we assist you, Dr. McCoy?” David appears from behind him._

_“Oh, hello, Agent David,” McCoy replies. “Jeth—Gibbs offered to take my daughter on a tour since she's interested in forensic science. This is Joanna. Joanna, these are Agents DiNozzo and David.” He looks around as they shake hands. “Isn't Agent McGee here?”_

_“He is. He's working with IT up in our—'secret room',” DiNozzo says in a low voice, complete with raised eyebrows and finger quotes. “Nice to meet you, Joanna McCoy.”_

_“It's nice to meet you, too, sir,” Joanna replies politely._

_“Oooh,” DiNozzo grimaces. “I've been sir'd.”_

_David shakes her head. “If you will permit me, I can take you down to Abby's office and you can begin your tour there.”_

_“Thanks.” McCoy looks around at the circle of desks with computers and plasma screens running the news. It looks like a normal office, not one of a powerful criminal investigative team._

_“Hey.”_

_Gibbs's soft greeting startles him. “Hey yourself.”_

_“Joanna here?”_

_“Yes. Agent David has--”_

_“Come with me.” Gibbs pulls on McCoy's elbow and points down the hall._

_“--taken her down to your scientist's lab. Where're we going?” McCoy finishes as they enter an interior hall._

_“Here.” Gibbs pushes open the door to a room with a large table, giving him a slight push. The agent closes the door behind them quickly, turns, and devours McCoy with a bruising kiss._

_McCoy instantly molds himself to Gibbs's warm body, holding him in a vice-like hug. When they part, both are panting hard._

_“Missed you,” Gibbs says before he kisses him again, this time more gently, lingering and sweet._

_“Missed you, too,” McCoy tells him. “Two months without seeing much of you sucks.”_

_“Well, you working 24/7, makes it hard,” Gibbs runs his fingers through McCoy's hair. “Getting longer.” He smiles. “Like it.”_

_McCoy leans into Gibbs's touch, surprised as how much he has truly missed this man, missed being held by him, kissed, fucked. Two months is intolerable and he silently vows to never let it happen again._

_“Not like you haven't been working all the time, too. Investigated a homicide in Afghanistan; two weeks on a carrier for a case. Another one here.” McCoy sneaks a hand up under Gibbs's jacket, and rubs the long, lean muscle along Gibbs's spinal column, the one he knows aches with tightness. “Hmm. You're tense. Bet this hurts a little,” McCoy says as he presses._

_Gibbs flinches and groans. “Does. So, you checking up on me? Gibbs's blue eyes dance with mirth._

_McCoy shrugs and pulls him closer. “Just want to know what my boyfriend is up to. And if any of his team are gonna need a surgeon.”_

_The smile on Gibbs's handsome face slackens. “Is that what I am? A boyfriend?”_

_McCoy tries to figure out what the question, the softness of his voice, the look of. . .wonder in his eyes might mean? Is he shocked? Upset? Happy? Amazed? Scared? Maybe he shouldn't have said it, but dammit, that's what the man is to him—not just a friend, not a companion or a partner, at least not yet. _A boyfriend._ Someone he loves and wants to have in his life, in his bed, in his heart. And if he has a problem with that, well, then--_

_Slowly, the smile returns, grows broader, so much so that Gibb's eyes shine; the delicate skin around them crinkles delightfully. He leans in and kisses McCoy again. “I like it. I guess that makes you my. . .boyfriend.”_

_McCoy thinks he could downplay this, brush off the embarrassment of straying too far into emotional territory too soon after an extended hiatus._ Fuck it. _“Yep, it does.”_

_“Good. I've missed you,” Gibbs says, “and I don't want us to not see each other for this length of time ever again.” His eyes shine with purpose and sincerity. “Because, yes, I am your boyfriend. Now, how fast can we move you out of that dump you live in and give your daughter her own bedroom when she comes to visit us?” McCoy's eyebrows rise to his hairline. “I have a perfectly good house with a recently repainted bedroom that's just right. . .” Gibbs catches himself and looks away quickly with a smile. “Well, it's at least repainted. Not sure what Joanna likes. But there's new bedding that's at least better than what was there. And, I added a wireless router. Um. . .McGee added the router. What? NCIS is going to laptops and McGee said I had to have wireless at home and--”_

_McCoy can't quite believe what he's hearing but knows Gibbs would never lie to him. He kisses the wonderful man who has come into his life because of McGee, because of McGee's tragedy, and his recovery. He'd never say it out loud, because it's totally inappropriate, but he's kind of glad McGee stepped in front of that bullet on Christmas Eve, over seven months ago._

_“Good,” McCoy says, smiling as joy threatens to overwhelm him. “I'm tired of sleeping on my crappy sofa.”_

 

 

“Guess we need to go find the girls,” McCoy says, regretting that they have to move at all from the quiet oasis they've found in a less popular exhibit hall. “They'll wonder where we've run off to.”

“If I know my people, they know exactly where they are,” Gibbs replies. “But it would be nice to see the new exhibit downstairs.”

They head out and onto the balustrade overlooking the main rotunda. Gibbs's smiles slides away as they pick up the outraged tones of a familiar voice.

“I'm telling you I'm a federal agent with NCIS!!” Tony exclaims as two guards escort him out of the building by the arms. “My boss is here. Somewhere. He'll vouch for me!”

*~*

McCoy waves again as Joanna shuts the door to Abby's rather unusual car (“Dad! It's a _hearse_!!" Joanna had squealed), and it pulls away from the curb in Gibbs's quiet neighborhood. He's sure people here have seen it before because the folks across the street merely wave and go on watering their lawn without faltering.

“So, how'd she take the news?” Gibbs asks as McCoy re-enters the house. Gibbs hands him a beer. He smells faintly of barbecue smoke.

“Pretty well,” he answers, giving Gibbs a kiss. “Seems one of her best friends is the product of a lesbian household and another friend has a gay uncle who just got married. I told her I loved her mother very much while we were married, but that I have also been attracted to men from time to time throughout my life. She's cool with the whole idea of a second dad.”

That prompts Gibbs to grin and shake his head. “Kids are much more accepting of these things than the old farts of our generation.”

“Well, it's still new and kind of in vogue, this being out and proud and all that.” McCoy pauses to take a drink of the top-notch beer Gibbs favors. “The Navy is certainly ok with it. At least Boyce hasn't given me any grief, nor will he. Chapel threatened to rip his ears off if he did.”

Gibbs laughs. “She would, too.”

McCoy joins him in the laughter. “And he knows it. By the way, Joanna loves the room. You did a good job of picking the colors.”

“Everyone likes blue,” Gibbs says, leading McCoy through the house by the hand. “Can't go wrong with naval colors.”

They sit in comfortable lawn chairs on the deck, listening to the sizzle of steaks on the grill. The cold beer slides down easy. The small wooden table is set with a crisp green salad and sauteed squash to round out the meal. A warm breeze blows through the trees, and the rustling leaves remind McCoy of a time years ago in Georgia, a time when family was everything. Impulsively, he takes Gibbs's hand and kisses it, and settles in to home.

*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the few readers who provided much-needed support and encouragement when I originally posted this on LJ. Small but enthusiastic! And to my darling weepingnaiad who prodded me all along the way. I may return to Jethro and Leo at some point, but right now, I need to return Bones to Jim Kirk. Jim misses his doctor. Thanks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The sum of the parts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/954911) by [froggy_freek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggy_freek/pseuds/froggy_freek)




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